The manor was still wrapped in the hush of early morning, long shadows pooling in the corners where the rising sun had yet to touch. Pale light filtered through the tall windows of Villa Dellamorte, diffused by sheer curtains that fluttered slightly with the passing breeze. In the quiet wing where Lucanis resided, silence reigned—save for the faint rustle of fabric and the occasional clink of porcelain.

Lucanis stood in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to the elbow, his dark hair slightly tousled from sleep. His movements were efficient and fluid, honed by years of silent work in enemy territory and back alleys. The same hands that once slit throats with surgical precision now stirred eggs with careful attention, lifting the pan from the flame before they could overcook. He worked without haste but without pause, his mind focused, his expression unreadable as always.

The smell of rich Antivan coffee drifted through the air, mingling with the aroma of warm butter and herbs. He plated the meal neatly: poached eggs with crisped edges, spiced tomatoes, and toasted bread rubbed with garlic. Everything was warm and simple, but made with intent. Not opulence, but intimacy.

He turned briefly toward the hallway, pausing to listen. No sound from the bedroom yet. Good.

A rare softness had crept into his expression—a sliver of something gentler beneath the usual guarded stillness. He poured the coffee last, black as ink, into a porcelain cup with delicate blue filigree. It was from an old set his grandmother once hoarded for guests of importance. He supposed this counted.

With practiced balance, Lucanis assembled everything onto a tray and made his way toward the bedroom. His footsteps were nearly silent despite the marble floors, a side effect of a life spent avoiding detection. He pushed the door open with his shoulder and entered the room.

The early light caught on the edge of the sheets where they had slipped slightly, outlining the gentle curve of the figure still curled in bed. Lucanis’s gaze lingered there—brief, silent, reverent. Something tightened in his chest.

He set the tray down on the bedside table with care, arranging it so the steam wouldn’t fog the cup’s rim or soak the toast. Then he sat, the bed dipping slightly under his weight.

“Buongiorno, amore,” he murmured, his voice low. “I made breakfast. Coffee's fresh.”